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PRELUDE 

BY 

JULIUS SCHMITTLE HOFFMAN 



WITH A FOREWORD BY 

ADELAIDE BALLINGER 




HAMILTON, OHIO 

THE HILL -BROWN PRINTING CO. 
1921 




fr&»S x IWjU*^ 



THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
TO 

THE BELOVED PARENTS 

OF 

JULIUS SCHMITTLE HOFFMAN 



CONTENTS 



FOREWORD 1 

THREE BOOKS — PRELUDE 5 

PART I — LOVE 

PROMISE 8 

THE FULL FLOWER 9 

UNRECONCILED 10 

JEALOUS HANDS 12 

FETTERED 13 

MEMORIES 14 

REAWAKENED 15 

REMEMBRANCE 16 

DECISION 17 

QUIET THINKING 18 

THE OASIS 19 

METAMORPHOSIS 20 

JEANNE 21 

MA ADELE 21 

BREAK OF DAY 22 

I MORE THAN LOVE YOU 23 

PRESENTIMENT 24 



IX 



PART II — LIFE 

A CRIPPLED YOUTH 26 

MY RIVER OF GOLDEN DREAMS 27 

MY WAY 28 

THE TINY BIRD 29 

THE TOILER 30 

ENVY (to a sculptress) 32 

PRESENTATION (to the same) 33 

AN EPICURE OF INTELLECT 34 

TO BROWNING 35 

CAUGHT FROM THE COMET 36 

HUMAN LIFE 37 

SLEEP 38 

PART III— DEATH 

OUT OF THE MIST 40 

MIDNIGHT 41 

GRAY DARK CLOSES 42 

DE MORTE 43 

A NEW DAY IS BEGUN 44 



The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new. 

— Canto IV, Stanza V. 
Sir Walter Scott's "Lady of the Lake' 



FOREWORD 



It is with the single desire to perpetuate in 
print the memory of Julius Schmittle Hoffman 
that this slender edition of some of his verse 
is being published. The editor has selected 
the work as carefully as possible, changing 
little or nothing of the context, and grouping 
the verses with regard to what was known of 
the poet's intimate emotional history. 

The biographical fadts of Julius Hoffman's 
life cover a pitiably short span of years. He 
was born in New Orleans, Louisiana, in 1896 
and received his A. B. degree from Tulane 
University in 1917, and his A. M. from Har- 
vard in 1918. His years at Tulane were dis- 
tinguished ones, for besides winning the Car- 
not, Latin, and Debating Medals, he helped 
to edit the college paper, and graduated at the 
head of his class. After receiving his A. M. 
from Harvard in 1918, he accepted an in- 
strud:orship in Mathematics from the same 
University for the year of 1919. Previous to his 
brief illness and subsequent death from heart 
disease (June 29, 1920), he was teaching math- 
ematics at Tufts College and pursuing gradu- 
ate studies at Harvard. Twenty-four short 
years had sufficed to give to a large group of 
acquaintances the example of a valiant spirit 



whose slight physical heart weakness made 
him look upon life with philosophical detach- 
ment and serenity, while it refined the native 
richness of his soul sufficiently to give him un- 
usual depth and variety of sympathies for "all 
the ways of all men's lives," those of "the 
cloistered synagogue " as well as those of "the 
busy street." To his friends the same years 
gave the certainty of genius in the bud. One 
of its evidences was the present group of 
verses, about which the deceased was at once 
so reticent and careless that many of them 
were found jotted down on the backs of old 
envelopes and on the margins of lecfture notes. 
It was his friends who rescued them and at 
whose behest their publication is attempted. 
This group of friends preserve in their mem- 
ories the image of his spirit, and it is there- 
fore well to record something of their per- 
sonalities in a volume devoted to the preser- 
vation of the remembrance of the poet. 

They numbered, among others, a sculp- 
tress, a university instructor in medieval 
philosophy, a student of medicine, a student 
of theology, a biological chemist, a student of 
economics, political theory and drama, and 
two students of general " liberal " arts. Part 
of this varied group was accustomed, during 
the winter of 1919-20, to gather weekly, 
and on such occasions the talk was merely 
lively, or weighty, or both, as suited the mood 
of the talkers. Each member contributed his 
"bit," and the representative of "poesy," 
when called upon, would attempt a retreat. 
When hard pressed, with his back to the wall, 



he would produce some comic doggerel or 
nonsense verse. Only once or twice did he 
consent to give the hungry group a serious 
morsel. Some of the individuals in the circle 
knew of the verses here recorded, but to 
others most of them will be new. Despite 
the poet's own indifference to " the grace of 
young rosebuds " and his desire — in emo- 
tion as in all things — for the "full flower," 
his friends find consolation in preserving the 
germ of merit which they believe is contained 
in lines often passionate, sometimes headlong 
and bitter, and again gentle and resigned. 
To those who offered their co-operation in 
the publishing of Prelude the editor owes 
hearty thanks. 

Amid the allurements of June the first 
anniversary of Julius Hoffman's death ap- 
proaches, and its observance is softened by 
them into something resembling justice. 
That combination of elements which makes 
for the evanescent and delicate glory of June 
flowers comes but once a year and remains 
a brief week or two. Perhaps the chain of 
circumstances which fused to create the fragile 
soul of a poet comes but once in a cycle of 
years, and by its very ethereal nature this soul 
must pass more quickly than the rest. It 
seems best, therefore, to bless the necessity of 
circumstances which gave, and submit to 
that which took away, our poet-friend. 

ADELAIDE BALLINGER 
June, 1 92 1 
Hamilton. Ohio 



THREE BOOKS - PRELUDE 

These are three weighty volumes by my side, 
Centuries old and priceless; there they lie 
Uncovered, where the rudest passer-by 
Might roughly handle, and to none denied. 

Within the first, the mightiest poets confide 
Their dearest thoughts, aye, many a laugh, a sigh, 
Has found a resting-place herein, and I 
Prize this the most. Each leaf is occupied 

With some fine sentiment. There are few lines 
Penned in the second, and some mystic signs 
Such as a seer or a magician weaves. 

The third is blank. Yet with their latest breath 
Many have tried to write within its leaves; 
See, they lie open there, Love, Life and Death. 



PART I— LOVE 



"Many a laugh, a sigh, has found a resting-place herein." 



PROMISE 

If I were one who loved a constant place, 
Nor wandered far from well-kept garden side, 
It should be my delight to watch the grace 
Of young rosebuds, with beauty yet unspied, 
Growing day by day, increased and glorified. 
But being a wanderer upon the earth, 
The pleasure of such watching is denied. 
To leave the buds behind — this is my dearth; 
The full flower I must pluck; promise is nothing 
worth. 



THE FULL FLOWER 

Sorrow and joy are relative; so says 
The seer Spinoza, having seen that those 
Suffering hunger or clad in threadbare clothes 
Laugh often more than men in better case. 

But He, who for his royal pleasure plays 
With these our lives, has made His will to close 
The deepest woe (as each true lover knows) 
And highest happiness in each soul's space. 

For I could meet no greater grief than this: 

That you should show some want of tenderness, 

A sudden coldness crept into your kiss, 

Or faint hypocrisy in your caress. 

And life could hold no more than present bliss, 

Than thus to love you and be loved no less. 



UNRECONCILED * 

Thy many rods have chastened me for long: 
Mute sorrow and the length of loveless days, 
Or bitter laughter and the tuneless song 
Of one who wounded binds his wounds and plays 
At making merry; till, being not overstrong, 
He bends his knees and prays. 

For thou didst send Death journeying to my shore; 
On wings of water and wet winds he came, 
The waves beneath him broke with sullen roar, 
Broke fleeing back and hid themselves for shame 
As Death leaped forth and hurried to my door 
Calling her loved name. 

Thou knowest how all the roses manifold 
Upon her cheeks paled out at seeing the guest; 
How her warm lips, close-pressed to mine, grew cold 
The while she shuddered gently on my breast; 
How through the night sharp anguished sighings told 
Of terror and unrest. 



10 



Thou knowest, O God, I cursed Thee in the morn, 
Watching the beauty of her dark eyes glaze, 
That Thou shouldst leave me barren and forlorn, 
Thee and thy servant Death and all thy ways; 
That Thou hadst made man's meed for being born 
To sorrow through his days. 

Thou, God, hast seen me wander on the sands 
Laughing at ships that struck upon the reef, 
Hast seen me trace with yellow, fevered hands 
On the white shore things bitter past belief, 
Strange blasphemies conceived in many lands 
That held no balm for grief. 

It may be, Lord, that sometimes I have prayed, 
Being worn with sorrow, and knelt down in the dust; 
And sometimes for a moment Thou hast stayed 
Thy wrath, and sent me bribes — which rot and rust; 
But this Thou knowest, that I am unafraid, 
And I — Thou art unjust. 



^Written upon the death of a beloved cousin. 



11 



JEALOUS HANDS 

See that thou lovest not one friend too well, 
Nor lettest thy senses by one flower be charmed, 
Nor dotest on some pallid pink sea-shell 
That seemeth for thine eyes' enjoyment formed. 
Fortune hath jealous hands, and being armed 
With flashing sword forged out of flying years, 
He shall leave nothing of thy joy unharmed. 
O thou who lovest so well, hast thou no fears 
That time shall cause thee grief and many bitter 
tears ? 



12 



FETTERED 

One by one so sadly let them fall 

Into the flames, awaiting eagerly 

Worn relics, till thou art forever free, 

No longer bound and Memory's helpless thrall. 

Yes, let them perish wholly, one and all — 

The wisp of curling hair, so soft to see, 

The faded leaf that was so prized by thee. 

Aye, drop them ; close the door of Memory's hall 

What ! Dost thou hesitate and falter now ? 
Quick ! Give the god of fire his lawful prey ; 
The past is dead. Say not it lingers yet. 

Aye, still it lingers, and we long must bow 

To Memory's sweet, sad yoke. Come, store away 

Thine outworn relics ; thou canst ne'er forget. 



13 



MEMORIES 

I hear thee call when the tempests blow, 
When the wild gales howl and moan and roar 
Till the winds seem to sing in a voice I know, 
And are harsh and shrill no more; 
In the honeyed tones of a voice I know, 
And are stubborn and shrill no more. 

In the hot, fierce gleam of a winter fire, 

When the flames mount high and the red coals glow, 

Then I think (and the bright flames lose their ire), 

They are bright as soft eyes I know. 

They have borrowed their lustre, and lost their ire 

In the light of thine eyes, I know. 



14 



REAWAKENED 

Erstwhile I thought the little store 
Of love within myself had dried 

And withered up some time before, 
For that I nurtured it denied. 

But now I must e'en think anew, 

For that wee flower from feigning dead, 

Came springing up at sight of you 
And never will be satiated. 

It stole an hour, a day, a dream, 
And on this fare grew up so strong, 

That now it comes to this extreme, 
To steal my pen, and eke my song. 



15 



REMEMBRANCE 

To sit and talk beside you — see the smile 
Leap to your eyes at some quaint episode — 
Thus as a traveler, paused to rest a while 
At some kind dwelling-place along the road, 
Finds here and there an ornament that brings 
Faint memories of an earlier abode — 
So to your smiling and dear ways there clings 
An echo heard far off, of long'forgotten things. 



16 



DECISION 

To love you and not speak — were this the end, 
Playing at castle^building half awake, 
Clinging to slumber for a faint dream's sake, 
Lest daylight flash a ruthless sound and rend 
Its delicate tissue ? Better far to break 
The chain of sleep; better to dare heartache, 
Stake all my dreams for joy that shall transcend 

The glory of all dreams; so ! — I entrust 
Unto your judgment, princess, fragile things, 
Hope flickering at love's flame let there be tried ! 
But pray, sweet arbitress, be more than just, 
Be kind and gentle in all your sentencings, 
And smile on them that they be glorified. 



17 



QUIET THINKING 

Harsh music and crude jollity dispel 

The pleasure of quiet thinking. All are happy. 

The world has robed itself in cap and bell 

Save you and me, who fain would steal away ; 

It is not here nor thus that I would play. 

Such merry-making seems but painted lies, 

Such jangling music fills me with dismay. 

'Twere better where a log fire slowly dies 

To dream of quiet things and gaze into your eyes. 



18 



THE OASIS 

O, lead me where love's fountains play, 
Thou, keeper fair, that I may say 
How dashes up the rainbow spray 
That flashes in the light. 

For thou alone may lead me there 
And thou alone, O, keeper fair, 
Make gay with flowers the desert where 
Was wilderness and night. 



19 



METAMORPHOSIS 

All the world, dear, is bare and colorless 
As some clear screen, until a colored light 
Is thereon thrown, replacing the dull white 
By changing shades of joy and bitterness. 
How harshly colored things, by harsh duress ! 
How changed by change of fortune, however slight, 
All colors turning (but not again dead white), 
Till pain cannot more ache, nor your love bless. 

So through your love a metamorphosis 

Has wrought itself on many things ; the space 

Of tiresome hours is shorter, and I miss 

The one-time sneer upon the grim world's face. 

So has my life been colored by your kiss, 

That even the cold earth seems a merry place. 



20 



JEANNE 

(AN ACROSTIC) 

Joined by the love-god's skillful hands, 
Entwined my captive heart around 
A net of shimmering silken bands, 
New woven of a love new found, 
Now holds me by his stern commands 
E'en for a lifetime bound. 



MA ADELE 

Lo, the evening sun from crimson fields descending, 

Weaves an eerie, mystic spell 
That the dusky shades thine image form in blending, 

Ma Adele. 

And the azure sky a vessel, blood-tinged, holding 

Joy unbounded in its swell, 
Blue depths a vision born of dreams enfolding 

Ma Adele. 

Ah, to dream eternal, while the fancy roaming 

O'er stream, o'er dale, o'er fell, 
Would bring thee here beside me in the gloaming, 

Ma Adele! 



21 



BREAK OF DAY 

Rise, my love, for the dawn is breaking 
Over the hills in its chalice of blood. 

Rise, my love, for the world is waking, 
Bathed in a crimson flood. 

See, my love, through the window peeping, 

With his promise of joy to be, 
The rosy sun his watch is keeping 

Over the world and thee. 

Come, my love, through the flhivy morning, 
Tears of joy that the angels sned 

Through the fields of God's adorning, 
Thou and I, fancy-led. 

Yea, my sweet, 'tis another dawning, 
Joy in the heavens that bend above. 

Come, my sweet, and give thanks for the 
Morning, 
Gladness and Life and Love. 



22 



I MORE THAN LOVE YOU 

It cannot be I love you; love they say 
Is full of violent force and turbulent 

As a spring flood when the pressed dam gives way 
That held its raging powers too closely pent. 

With you I find deep peace and quiet content 
In longing all pervasive and sincere — 

But love is riotous, too quickly spent, 

(As floods in March rush on and disappear), 

So it must haply be I more than love you, dear. 



23 



PRESENTIMENT 

Out of the clear sky springtime flows, 
The warm day drowses lazily, 

(But raging floods from winter snows 
Run headlong to the sea). 

This is my springtime, pretty maid, 
And I am happy now, God knows, 

(It is not well to be afraid 

Of floods from winter snows). 



24 



PART II — LIFE 



'Some mystic signs such as a seer or a magician weaves." 



A CRIPPLED YOUTH 

A crippled youth might limp along the shore, 
His veins a^tingle with the salt sea air, 
His senses quickened by the deep sea's roar, 
Watching the spray like flying locks of hair. 
In this wise might he pause and linger there, 
With light hand resting on a withered knee, 
His eyes a-dream, forgetful of despair, 
Forgetful this adventure might not be, 
And eager looks strained far, far out to ships 
at sea. 



26 



MY RIVER OF GOLDEN DREAMS 

This is my river of golden dreams 
On the farther side of night — 

Water that plays in the pale moonbeams 
And the starlight. 

Know your kingdom you have found, 
Tumbled kings in vain have sought, 

With my great dream-river, sound, 
Fairy wrought. 

Know my craft is made of notes, 
Songs a dream-minstrel sings, 

And my sail of gauze that floats 
From fairies' wings. 

Come and venture on the tide 

Where the fleeting moonlight streams, 

On the weird, unfathomed, wide 
River of dreams. 



27 



MY WAY 

Alack, you must follow me 

Among the wallows of the deep, 

For your trim craft hoves up the sea, 
Deep down where green^haired mermaids 
sleep. 

And I — your path is barred to me, 
For fast and smooth I cannot sail; 

My way lies wallowing in the sea, 

Deep down, where the dim skylights fail. 



28 



THE TINY BIRD 

Think'st thou the tiny bird in yonder cage 

Lives but his life within those gilded bars? 

Has he not visionings of greater things, 

Green fields that lie beneath the summer sun, 

And rippling streams that chant harmoniously 

An echo to his own sweet burst of song? 

Does he not dream of tall, majestic forests, 

Whispering secrets to each passing wind, 

With none but him to hear? Has he not thought 

Of a safe lofty nest, far, far above 

The gilded bars that fetter him to earth ; 

Home, home, and freedom in the high treetops? 

Think'st thou the soul of man content to dwell 
Fettered by feeble earthly shell alone? 
Has he not visionings of greater things, 
Thoughts that were often better dreamt than told ? 
Untrammeled freedom, with the dust of earth 
Shaken from off his weary heels at last ? 

Poor bird ! Thy bars have held thee safe to earth, 
Thy bonds are stronger, little creature, far, 
Than those that strive to hold the soul of man. 



29 



THE TOILER* 

I am a hewer of wood and drawer of water, 

A toiler drudging at an unending task, 

The Temple of men's learning; whereof the base 

Lies buried in the past, and whose tall spires, 

Ever unfinished, cut the clouds to shreds; 

So that a lifetime seems a little space, 

And all great effort futile. Wherefore labor, 

Grow pallid-faced and tired-eyed, traversing 

Dim hallways centuries old, with Aristotle, 

Crescas, Maimonides, Ibn Roshd, Halevi? 

Wherefore shut out the throbbing present world? 

Typewriter, fountain pen, eledtric lights, 
A study in the Widener Library,** 
Lined with great volumes richly bound: these things 
You say surround me. But I am truly this: 
A skull-capped, bearded rabbi, with quill and parch- 
ment, 
Seeking the truth by flickering candle-light, 
In some medieval cloistered synagogue. 

Deep in old volumes I have learned to smile, 
Watching the ebb and flow of human tide. 
Even if I ventured forth, still in my spirit 
I should be laughing as men jostled me, 
At these and at myself for striving so. 
I have for such a time with old books dwelt 
That all the juice of life has been pressed out, 
As of some rose, closed in forgotten pages. 

30 



I have no part in all the busy street ; 
Yet sometimes, when the voices of the world 
Drift faintly through the window of my room, 
Sometimes I would I were as other men, 
Full of the cares and crudities of life. 

With all the ways of all men's lives in flux, 

I spend my days companionless, apart, 

Pondering the meaning of an ancient phrase: 

What meant the words that Aristotle spoke? 

What grumbled Crescas at? What Hebrew thought 

Lay hidden in Spinoza's gentile tongue? 

And what the sum of this sequestered toil ? 
A musty tome perchance, on these great shelves 
Utterly lost and overwhelmed; forgotten, 
Save for the careless glance of passing students. 

Here in my study sits the hard Taskmaster, 
Stern, cold impersonal duty, born of labor 
Begun and uncompleted; urging, drawing 
My eyes back from the window and the world. 
For when I slacken at my unending task, 
Mocking its sad futility, he sneers, 
Saying "O fool, in all this witless world, 
There is no better thing than what you do!" 



*Published in the Menorah Journal, August, 1920 
*Widener Library, Harvard. 



31 



ENVY* 

These are contented seraphs that you mould, 
Children and fierce Valkyries. Through the day 
They watch your nimble fingers at their play, 
And breathe your spirit, and are no longer cold. 

God is so far away — these things behold 
Their maker — they are happier than our clay 
(That fret and shiver, until the end — decay), 
For these the little curtain is uprolled. 

God is so far away — your eyes are soft 

And saddened with the visions of great things, 

And all your dreaming soul is wholly theirs. 

Their little heaven is a creaking loft, 

In some queer street of curious wanderings, 

Up two dark flights of narrow, dismal stairs. 



To a sculptress. 



32 



PRESENTATION 

If you like my little verses 

You may have three little guesses 
Who the man who so disburses 

Gems of poetry (more or less) is. 

Now I do not often visit 

Sculptors in their studio attics, 

And my line of business — is it 
Not appalling? — mathematics. 

But I pray you do not trouble, 
For you scarcely would recall, 

May I offer you this bubble 

For your greatness? — that is all. 



33 



TO AN EPICURE OF INTELLECT * 

You are as cold as all the wide expanse 
Of snow in winter ; and I no more to you 
Than some belated song-bird, who perchance 
Must live as best he can the season through. 
But hear me, pretty lady, this is true, 
That some day quenchless fire shall surge along 
Your cold white soul and throw your life askew ; 
For being all snow you shall be wholly wrong, 
And seeing your grief, I shall lament you in a song. 



* On being in the presence of a toointellecftual pretty girl. 



34 



TO BROWNING 

Master of words, the mystic links that bind 
Worlds each to each; wondrous, yet empty things, 
Lacking the underlying thought that rings 
In deep, low tone through lives of humankind. 

And thou art he who daily sought to find 
Some lesson to impart that poesy brings 
Close to the heart; the theme that ever clings 
With words of rime and beauty intertwined. 

Half hidden is the jewel, yet more the prize 
When brought to light; the sparkling gem laid bare 
That is most sought, with purer lustre glows. 

Yes, in thy message is the power that cries 

Aloud unto the soul; the mystic, rare, 

Rich, vibrant tone that only greatness knows. 



35 



CAUGHT FROM THE COMET * 

Swiftly through the air I'm flying, 

Through the sky I gaily sail, 
Going round in one big circle, 

Making all the stars turn pale. 

Know I not what time or day 'tis, 
Till I meet some friend of mine, 

Then we journey on together 
Till I leave my friend behind. 

Many years I keep on sailing 
Till my rent on earth falls due, 

Which it does in every century — 
Seventy years plus three and two. 

'Course I never can colled: it, 

But I give her men a fright ; 
Gee ! I bet I'll soak 'em heavy 

With my tail some fine bright night. 

* Written by Julius Hoffman at the age of twelve. 



36 



HUMAN LIFE* 

In the vast dome of heaven they appear, 
Shining with brilliancy, undimmed by time, 

Bathing in their bright splendor all the universe, 
Glowing for generations all sublime. 

Then from their midst a lum'nous objedt falls 
And disappears behind the dark blue veil. 

Twas but a shooting star and now 'tis gone, 
Leaving behind it but a fiery trail. 

Ah! such is human life; we fade away. 

Some leave behind them but a moment's thought, 
And there are some, that like exalted stars 

Leave everlasting memories on each human heart. 



*Composed by Julius Hoffman when he was thirteen years of age. 



37 



SLEEP 

Sleep, O Day, 

Night's soothing touch has found thee, 
Wrapping her mantle 'round thee; 
Shadows of soft, sweet sound thee 
Lull to rest. 

Sleep, O Day, 
O, to thy rest betake thee; 
Darkness a couch shall make thee, 
Turmoil and noise forsake thee, 
On Night's breast. 

Sleep, O Day, 

Moonbeams soft, fond caress thee, 
In playful shadows dress thee, 
Silent night-sounds now bless thee; 
Sleep is best. 



38 



PART III — DEATH 



"With their latest breath many have tried to write within its leaves." 



OUT OF THE MIST 

Out of the mist a horseman rides, 
Horse and rider flecked with foam, 
The steed nigh spent, with panting sides 
Spattered with splashing, clinging loam, 
Hurrying, hurrying ever on, 
Youth flashes by, with eager eye, 
And is gone. 

Out of the mist an old man bent, 
Staggers with faltering, stumbling pace, 
Staggers with steps that are nearly spent 
And hoary locks that interlace ; 
Tremblitig, tottering ever on 
With dimming eye, age staggers by 
And is gone. 



40 



MIDNIGHT 

Darkness has wrapt the slumbering in its folds, 

A hush, deep, strained, intense, hangs over all; 

A momentary pause, as if between 

Two long-drawn sighs the night has ceased to breathe. 

Then loud and clear, resounding silvery tongues 

Welcome the hour of midnight. Through the length 

Of dusky streets the mystic peals burst forth, 

Making the night a festival of joy. 

O, rapturous harmony, so wonderful, 

So rare, enticing in the sombre night, 

Too short thy life, too soon thy sweet sounds cease, 

Leaving the world to darkness and to night. 



41 



GRAY DARK CLOSES 

I am a child and the world my plaything, 
Heigho balls, and pretty toys, 

Souls of men and souls of women, 
Laughter, sorrows and joys. 

I am a child and life my playtime, 
Heigho, to merry, merry, keep, 

Till mists do gather and gray dark closes, 
And I be put to sleep. 



42 



DE MORTE 

The throng life*d welling never mends its pace; 
He is but one who has resigned his place, 
Who lies there now, so still and cold in death, 
With joy and wonder on his pallid face. 

It is not well to close a dead man's eyes 
And murmur — He was just and good and wise — 
While thinking in our hearts —He was a rogue. 
These things we say are merely noble lies. 

But here they do not lie who praise the dead ; 
Truth, and his mindfulness of duty spread 
A flush of glory o'er the flowers that nod 
Above his peacefully reclining head. 

Gone the bright smile, life's fervor and life's zest; 
He lies in peace ; all that in him was best 
Has heard the call that summoned him to God 
To find repose in Nature's last long rest. 



43 



A NEW DAY IS BEGUN 

The summer sky flames as a burning rose, 
The glimmer on the housetops fades and dies, 
The dusty street all bare and silent lies, 
As tho' the world crept silent to repose. 

Repose ? Nay, one by one gay lights appear, 
And twilight dimness slowly fades away, 
And there comes forth the shadow of the day, 
With its unnatural revelry and cheer. 

Each feeble lamp a shadow of the sun 

And Life a shadow of the long ago, 

While through the night a voice sings soft and 

low — 
"The Old is dead; a new day is begun." 



44 



Deac,d f,ed using the Bookkeeper process 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium OxkJe 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
CwrtwnrTownship, PA 16066 
(724) 77S-21 11 



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